Wilderness Winchesters
by LivingForTv
Summary: The Winchesters head up into the mountains, on horseback, to deal with a bunch of Native American ghosts.


**Author's note: This was meant to be a little drabble but wouldn't stop. The words given were: ****quail, carnal, ballast, asunder, shroud, dash, stagger and writhe. It's possible I cheated on "carnal" but otherwise they are in there.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural**

Wilderness Winchesters on the raid

Dean pulled on the reins of his pinto and made him halt when they had reached the summit of the mountainous path. He pulled out his chequered handkerchief and mopped the sweat that clung to his brows and made his eyes sting. He gulped a mouthful of water and pushed his black Stetson to the back while he waited for Sam to catch up. Sam wore a red flannel shirt and jeans and, though he thoroughly looked the cowboy part, he looked less at ease on horseback than his brother. Dean had chosen an all black outfit with a black fringed leather jacket that would have suited a guy straddling a motorcycle better. But it was as close to his normal look as was practical. It was the second day in the mountains and so far all they had seen in the way of predators had been quails.

"Do you think we'll find that Indian burial site?" Sam wondered, pulling at his bandana and rising in the saddle to ease his sore behind. "Yup, when there's trouble around we always find it, it's just a matter of time" Dean calmly answered. "Still wish we had been able to get a better map, or even a guide" Sam groused and leaned forward to pat his roan. Dean didn't bother nodding, he just nudged his horse forward. "Come on, let's find a place to set up camp. There's a stream two miles ahead."

The sun was just visible over the range to the west when the brothers reached the stream, and it was still fairly warm. Their minds worked in the same way and without exchanging a single superfluous word they went to work. Dean took care of the horses and their ballasts and Sam quickly built a fire and pulled out a change of clothes and towels. Then he stripped and, soap in hand, waded out to the waist in the icy water and started scrubbing away the day's sweat and dust. Dean joined him shortly after and, when both felt clean and were numb from the freezing cold, they hurried up to the blazing fire, shrouding themselves in towels.

Two hours later, after a feast of canned chilli con carne, they lay in their sleeping bags and watched the stars. The fire had died down to embers and the sounds of horses grazing soothed their minds. Sam, his troubled mind finally hushed by the serene beauty of the wilderness, soon fell asleep. Peaceful for once. Dean stayed awake though, listening to the evening sounds being replaced by the sounds of the night.

That was why he felt the subtle changes in the darkness that told him another hunter was approaching. Dean quietly unzipped his sleeping bag and placed a light, warning hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam instantly awoke, his muscles tensing. He held his breath and slowly unzipped his sleeping bag too. The brothers listened to the little signs that would tell them what kind of a predator they were dealing with and, when the silence was torn asunder as the horses suddenly reared in terror, they were ready.

Both flew up, grabbing their Winchesters loaded with rock salt and consecrated iron. And not a minute too soon as at least six or seven ghosts of war whooping Indians swarmed into their camp, intent on blood and carnage. Dean didn't get a chance to get a shot off before he staggered and ducked as an all too real tomahawk flew past above his head. Sam stood up firing though, round after round, his hands steady, and one ghost after another disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Dean started firing from ground level and the attack was over less than a minute after it had begun. Sam reached down for his brother and remarked "This burial ground gotta be close, I don't think we can wait for dawn". "No way we are waiting" Dean agreed "I hate it when dead guys come after me with axes". Sam made to say something along the lines of "don't be ridiculous, how often has that happened" but didn't when the incidents lined up in his memory. He knew his thinking was still too normal.

They put on the headlamps and, rifles at the ready, they started walking the way Dean pointed, leaving two terrified horses behind. After a couple of minutes an ominous, foreboding atmosphere settled on them, making their skin itch, and they knew they were getting close. Then they saw it, remnants of rotting poles and sunken ground, a surprisingly small area. This time they were ready for the attack when it occurred and again and again the ghosts of the Indians fell in a hail of bullets. Dean quickly poured a ring of salt around his brother. "You hold them off and I hallow the ground" Dean shouted "quickest way, there are too many corpses". Sam nodded, concentrating on protecting his brother who made a dash around the area, creating an impenetrable barrier with his salt jars. Then Dean jumped in, fashioning a crucifix of branches, tying it together with silver thread he had bought from a crafts shop where he felt his masculinity had been questioned. The last part was reading the prayer for emergency christening, hoping it would help for situations like these too. Sam's shots drowned the words but evidently not their meaning because as Dean said "Amen" a unanimous howl went up and then everything went quiet. They exchanged triumphant glances and stepped out of their salt circles, nothing attacking them, and headed back to camp.

Dean and Sam didn't sleep much the rest of the night since they were still high on adrenaline but when the sun came up neither felt tired. It was a beautiful morning and they had no place they needed to hurry to. "What do you say we dawdle on the way back, hm?" Dean asked. "Shoot a couple of those quails, drink that bottle I have in my pack… give you the opportunity of getting comfortable on that horse, like your big brother". Dean grinned and Sam, though he longed for a stuffed chair and couldn't stop writhing, agreed with the idea. "Alright, one more night. That's how long you can be without pie, anyway." And they rode away into the sunrise, Dean humming something that sounded a lot like "ramble on" but then melted into "I'm a poor lonesome cowboy".


End file.
